


First Morning After

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Drunken sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Heart-to-Heart, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M, Morning After, Samulet (Supernatural), Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23436010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Written for sometimesalways for the 2020 SPN Springfling.Sam wakes up the morning after his first time with Dean to some realizations.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 287





	First Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you sometimesalways for the wonderful prompts, it was a very fun read <3
> 
> Set during season 3.

Sam wakes up alone.

He’s comfortable, loose-limbed, and his recollection of anything beyond the bed is fuzzy and cottony.

A mild headache presses at his forehead; as far as hangovers go, it could be worse.

So he was drinking.

He sits up, the sheets falling to his waist.

He’s naked.

So he was up to other things, too.

He looks around the motel room, yawning, and remembers what state they’re in: Indiana, for a pointless case about restless spirits when they could be searching for a way to get Dean out of his demon deal.

He scratches idly at his chest, and feels warm metal there.

He looks down.

Dean’s amulet is around his neck.

The image of it there acts like a memory-specific slap to the face.

The night comes back to him.

He and Dean had finished the hunt easily and quickly with no victims. Sam was moody, pissed off that they were here in the first place, but Dean was happy at the win. He just wanted some wins, he’d explained to Sam, and Sam softened.

They’ve faced a lot of losses lately.

Dean egged Sam into coming back to the room with him and drinking and eating pizza. They’d watched some dumb movie on the shitty cable TV, scarfed down pepperoni pizza, and got buzzed.

They played poker and coin flipping games, joking and getting drunker and drunker.

Dean gets cuddlier when he’s drunk.

Sam gets sadder.

At some point Sam ended up word-vomiting at Dean about the deal, guilt, grief, embarrassed at his splotchy face and thick throat. Dean had come closer, reassuring him, trying to make some promise, a promise he couldn’t keep, and they’d kissed.

The kiss became making out, and the making out got touchy. Dean made Sam strip down for losing poker, and well.

Sam’s memories get more jagged after that, but more vivid: Dean’s steady hands lifting him up, Dean’s mouth on his navel. Dean helping Sam onto the bed.

Sam is embarrassed just to remember what they did.

Dean’s. Dean’s mouth at Sam’s hole, Dean’s fingers absolutely everywhere, and then, oh, and then, they did everything, they ticked every box.

Specifically, Sam’s box.

And it had been amazing.

Remembering it doesn’t make Sam smile, though, or swoon, or harden, or anything like that.

Remembering it fills him with a dull sense of horror, the true repercussions of their actions refusing to fully sink in.

You see, Sam has this crush, has had it his whole life.

This desperate, stupid, younger-siblingly worship of Dean, this need of him like a comfort blanket. Or something more unhealthy, because Sam is planning to jump off a cliff if Dean is ever gone, and that’s looking more and more likely.

He’s been sort of good at hiding it, except when he gets drunk.

When he gets drunk, he cries and apologizes to Dean for vague feelings, he makes Dean promise things, he touches Dean and makes Dean hug him and he gets mopey and desperate and depressed. When they were hunting in that bed and breakfast, Sam had made a fool of himself leaning into Dean’s touches only for Dean to break away before anything less-than-brotherly could happen.

But this time had been different.

Dean had said everything Sam wanted to hear, comforting and loving and sweet, and his eyes held the same adoration Sam felt for Dean, and Dean had initiated the kiss, had led Sam to the bed, had been patient and easygoing opening him up. Dean had made Sam feel comfortable and heated and everything.

What had changed?

Sam stands up on unsteady legs. He drinks down water from the sink, splashes some on his face. As he makes himself decent and does his business, he thinks on that singularly important question.

Had Dean always known Sam’s feelings, and decided to give Sam something to remember him by before he was gone, some kind of wish fulfillment? Had Dean said fuck it and just wanted some quick sex, no longer perturbed by things like morals since he was hellbound already?

Sam has no answer. He has no evidence to build up into a case. He has no clues to lead him to a conclusion.

He just doesn’t know.

It doesn’t help that Dean is noticeably absent.

Sam’s thoughts go in circles, digging themselves deeper into a pit as they go.

Sam got shit-faced drunk, always a bad idea. He had a one-night stand with his brother who only had six months left to live. 

And now he’s alone in the motel with his strewn about clothes from last night and empty pizza boxes.

He paces around the room, stomach rumbling, and picks at the protein bar he finds in his duffle. He considers calling Dean, or going out looking for him, but rules them out.

Staying in the room is no less anxiety-inducing. He chews his nails, turning the TV on and off.

When a key scratches in the lock, Sam’s heart all but stops.

He freezes mid-pace, facing the door, and scratches nervously at his shirt collar as the door swings open.

Dean walks in, fully clothed. His button down is huge on him: it’s Sam’s. His arms are laden with coffee and greasy fast food bags. When he spots Sam, he beams.

“Hey! Thought we could eat in, leave around noon,” Dean says, setting his hoard down on the kitchenette table.

Sam is frozen, unable to speak. Dean shrugs out of his coat and ambles over to Sam, sliding hands down from Sam’s ribs to his hips and leaning in for a kiss.

Sam goes stiff. He’s too shocked to kiss back, and Dean notices, pulling away and cocking his head at Sam.

“You okay, dude?”

Sam is lightheaded. He shakes his head. “Dean.”

The grin melts off Dean’s face. Sam watches walls go up in live-time, watches his usual Dean replace the touchy one from before. “Oh come on. Don’t say it.”

Sam doesn’t say anything.

Dean’s face goes red. “You said this time was different,” Dean snaps, “that we wouldn’t play pretend and forget it in the morning.”

Dean’s voice is rough and strained and his eyes are glassy. He’s upset. He’s furious.

Wait, wait, wait.

“What?” Sam croaks.

“Did this mean fucking anything to you?” Dean asks.

“You remembered?” Sam asks. “Every time we...?”

The look Dean gives Sam then is burning. “Sam. Didn’t you?”

Of course he did.

“Why?” Sam asks instead, his voice so small. “Why this time?”

Dean steps closer. “I didn’t want to die pretending,” Dean says. “Doesn’t that sound stupid?”

Sam needs to ask even though it’s stupid, even though he’s afraid. “So you meant it?”

Realization coats Dean’s face in pity, concern, the rage completely obliterated. He steps even closer, right into Sam’s space. “Jesus christ, kiddo. Of course I did.”

Sam has no idea what to do with this information. He has absolutely no idea what to do with it.

“Sammy,” Dean pipes up. “Say something.”

“Sorry,” Sam says with a self-deprecating laugh. “I just.”

“I know.” Dean wraps his arms around Sam. He laughs, too. “Trust me, I know. If you want to stop--”

“No,” Sam interjects quickly. He goes pink. “No, I’m just. Processing.”

“Right,” Dean says. “So can I kiss you or not?”

“You can,” Sam says, and it sends electric jitters through him from head to toe.

Dean kisses him, and it’s real, and it’s sober, and it’s how Dean says I love you, Sam can tell, because he can feel it in every touch.

Sam kisses back.

They part, short of breath, and Sam eyes Dean, getting his fill, and notices with a jump that Dean’s doing the same.

Sam has never felt truly loveable, but he must be, at least a little bit, if Dean can look at him like that.

They spend the rest of the day inside. Sam is grateful for the food Dean brought. It keeps their energy up.

Dean touches him like he only has a day left, not six months, like he’s memorizing everything, like he’s beyond grateful, like he won the lottery.

It hurts.

Part of Sam wants to stop this, because if it hurts this fucking bad now, he can’t imagine what it will feel like in six months.

The thought makes his fingers tighten in Dean’s biceps and he kisses him harder, moaning into it as Dean fucks into him.

He wants to forget the reality of his life, just for a moment, so he does. He sinks into pleasure.

He lets Dean hold him until the sun goes down.

Tomorrow, he won’t pretend. He won’t forget.

He wants to give everything he has to Dean.

He only wishes it were enough to save him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for reading! Stay safe!


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